


He Wants-

by YourGoodGoodWritingFriend



Category: High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Dehumanization, Gen, Memory Loss, its brian being sad hours yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:23:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourGoodGoodWritingFriend/pseuds/YourGoodGoodWritingFriend
Summary: The Hanged Man has been a part of Camelot for as long as anyone who cares to consider it can remember.He wants to-He wants-
Relationships: Drumbot Brian & Ashes O’Reilly, Drumbot Brian & Gunpowder Tim (The Mechanisms), Drumbot Brian & Jonny d'Ville, Drumbot Brian & Marius von Raum, Drumbot Brian & Nastya Rasputina, Drumbot Brian & Raphaella la Cognizi, Drumbot Brian & The Mechanisms Ensemble, Drumbot Brian & The Toy Soldier (The Mechanisms), Ivy Alexandria & Drumbot Brian, The Aurora & Drumbot Brian (The Mechanisms)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 65





	He Wants-

**Author's Note:**

> im very proud of this cause i banged it out in one day. :D beta’d and encouraged by the lovely @nocturnal-and-chaotic, who’s over on tumblr, go check them out.

The Hanged Man has been a part of Camelot for as long as anyone who cares to consider it can remember. It is hung from a gallows by a thick cord of woven wire welded into its neck, and its hands are restrained the same way. The ‘ropes’ that bind it, crafted by some long-dead sheriff, are rusted. They clearly show their age as the wires creak with the weight they bear. Sometimes one snaps in a particularly severe windstorm. The Hanged Man too is made of metal, but where everything around it is weathered and rusted, most of it still shines like new. It is unlike anything else in Camelot or the surrounding area; it seems to repel almost any corrosion or defect. The only sign of its age is a bit of discoloration on its face. Many in Camelot have tried to puzzle out its purpose; an idol? a warning? simply a decoration? but none have been able to discern its true origin.

He wants to go home.  
He wants to-  
He wants to-  
He wants-

He wants to go home.  
He wants to sit on the bridge with the spiders and stowaways and octokittens, out of sight but always there.  
He wants to chart courses.  
He wants to fly.  
He wants to see the stars.  
He wants-  
He wants to see his_  
[crewmates]  
[friends]  
[family]  
He wants to see his family again.

He wants to sit in Ivy’s library, the two of them reading together with minds that can process whole pages as fast as a computer can add two plus two. He wants to talk to her in the simplest of binary and most complicated of ancient languages dead thrice-over and have her respond in kind with ease. He wants to back her up when she mentions an event from so long ago none of the rest of the crew can remember.  
He wants to-

The Hanged Man may not rust, but everything around it does. The metal of its world rusts and is worn away into dust. The particles seep through every miniscule crack and crevice in his skull until his processors are full of grit and his thoughts crash and reboot in an endless cycle of errors.

He wants to sit with Nastya in the engine room, warming the liquid flowing through their veins that cannot quite be called blood. He wants to plot courses with her that will take them through vast and mysterious galaxies. He wants to listen to her talk about Aurora with such love and reverence that it fills him with waves of fierce devotion for the both of them.  
He wants-

The Hanged Man does not bleed when curious gunslingers use it for target practice, but the bits of metal they shatter easily block the many feed-lines running what might once have been coolant or oil or some other substance to its various mechanics. As they first clog with debris and then dry out with time, he loses any feeling besides the raging heat of the metal around him.

He wants to compete with Tim, to count who can see more colors in spectrums no one else can even comprehend. He wants to argue over who can aim sharper and shoot farther. He wants to help the master-at-arms clean his vast collection of firearms as they chat about the best weapon made by a civilization dead a thousand years.  
He wants to-

The Hanged Man does not respond to movement, not even when a brave deputy waves faer hand in front of its eyes on a dare. The blazing light reflecting off of every surface blinded him, caused tears to flow until his tear ducts dried out. Their paths can still be seen rusted on his cheeks.

He wants to play cards with Ashes, catching their cheating him and then cheating them right back as they both smoke with lungs that will never falter. He wants to pour gasoline for them as they plot out the perfect spot to drop a match. He wants to annoy them into pulling out the supplies for whatever treat will most thrill the crew after a particularly trying performance.  
He wants-

The Hanged Man does not breathe, but when the wind blows just right the echoing of its hollow mouth sounds as if it is trying to speak. The howling gusts pour red sand down his throat and fill his lungs until they strain and ache, and he could not beg for help even if he wanted to.

He wants to have tea with the Toy Soldier, pretending to drink as they discuss what should and should not go into the finger sandwiches. He wants to debate the concept of Realness with voices taken from and created by others. He wants to dance with it, their artificial feet leading them on paths too complicated for any flesh.  
He wants to-

The Hanged Man does not move, aside from swaying where it hangs. His body is battered with wind and sand and the enthusiastic misfires of deputies in training, but even as he remains whole, he forgets how it feels to move of his own volition.

He wants to talk with Marius, arguing the correct terms for medical problems they barely know how to identify after all the years of the crew simply shooting themselves at the slightest sign of illness. He wants to take notes together with fingers as steady as the stars they chart around. He wants to reorganize the medical bay for the fifth time in a year because Marius decided he was tired of tripping into a cot right behind the door.  
He wants-

The Hanging Man may once have been able to use its hands, but the wire that bound them had been fused to the metal of its form, trapping them. His joints and the wires have long since melted into each other, locking him in place.

He wants to experiment with Raphaella, discovering new substances to be used for good or evil, depending on her mood and his morality. He wants to spot her as she practices increasingly daring stunts, catching her and whirling her back into the air, flying into and out of and around mountains and buildings until the residents of whatever planet they’re on are ready to declare her an angel or goddess, if he’ll let them. He wants to sit together, her wings draped over him as she fiddles with his switch, eternally fascinated by its solid relation to the nebulous concept of morality.  
He wants to-

The Hanged Man resembles a perfect human in nearly every way save one. No human in Camelot has a switch on the back of their neck. It has been so long since he has had to make a decision that he cannot remember what setting he is on. All he knows is he_  
[has been]  
[needs to be]  
[is being]

is being punished and he misses his_  
[crew]  
[friends]  
[family]

He misses his family terribly.

He wants to sit silently on the bridge with Jonny, each aware of the heart that does not belong but keeps pumping in their chests. He wants to needle Jonny by refusing to refer to him as ‘Captain’ even though they all look to him for direction more often than not. He wants to wreak havoc to the tune of the first mate’s delighted cackling.  
He wants-

The Hanged Man is not alive in any sense of the word. It does not breathe, nor move, nor respond to noise or light. If a very courageous person were to approach him, however, they would hear the beating of a very human heart.

He wants to be back on Aurora, guiding her ever onward to adventure and discovery. He wants to see her typing on her myriad of screens, intimately aware they are both people who once were human, now in very different forms but alive as ever. He wants to share a conspiratorial smile as she turns off all the lights and he pulls her sharply into a curve, the rest of the crew yelping and shouting their indignation from beyond the locked doors to the bridge.  
He wants to-

The Hanged Man is not a person. It is some sort of statue, perhaps a religious icon or depiction of a forgotten ruler.  
He can hardly remember anything before hanging, but he knows that, at least, is wrong.

He knows he belongs somewhere, though he can’t recall where.  
He knows he belongs with a group, though he can’t recall their faces.  
He knows he belongs-  
He knows he belongs-  
He knows-  
He wants-  
He-

He-

The Hanged Man has been a part of Camelot for  
longer than anyone who cares to consider it can remember by the time the Pendragons roll into town. As Arthur passes it on his way into the town hall, it shifts, though he would swear there was no wind.

For the first time in an eon, he knows why he is hanging.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i’m @chelsvans on tumblr and if you leave kudos or comment i’ll love you forever!! :D


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